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The Red Line Express
Interrogation '''Suite -- V2SD Nemesis Part interview room, part torture chamber - the combination of facilities is not a coincidence; the unspoken implication that resistance to one method of interrogation will necessitate the other hangs heavy. The room's spartan appearance is immediately oppressive, unforgiving durasteel chairs and desk polished bright and seamless white walls reflecting the harsh lighting offer nowhere for a suspect to focus their gaze in favor of their interrogator, save for the barbarous implements of suffering awaiting a recalcitrant prisoner. A restraint bed on a swivel mount can be adjusted to accommodate anything humanoid from a jawa to a wookiee in virtually any position, while the apparatus of torture is given over to a machine of fiendish barbarity - spindly articulated limbs festooned from a ceiling mount and tipped with all manner of probes, needles, blades and other tools all directed from a conveniently located free standing panel. ____________________________________________________________________________________ It's amazing, the degree of havoc that one more day without water can inflict on the body and mind. 72 hours thirsty, almost 96 hours hungry. Ambrosia hadn't much appetite for food the day of the mass rioting, and it's probable that she's regretting it now. Her belly, full of acid and bile, burns painfully, and an angry gallbladder is beginning to swell beneath her ribs, causing more discomfort. Head throbbing, eyeballs dehydrated, swollen tongue all but fused to the hard palate with cottony dryness, it's as though she's suffering the worst hangover of her life, only without good memories of the night before. At least she isn't waking up next to some stranger with rancor breath. A silver lining! It's the only up side. After being hauled like a sack of meat into her honeymoon suite the night prior, or day, or whatever time it was in this timeless place, Ambrosia managed to slither her way off the bed in favor of the floor. She'd propped herself up, using the bed as a backrest and splayed her legs out in front, trying to straighten the left one as much as possible. It's in that position that she'd spent most of her free time, and while true sleep eluded her, she was able to 'enjoy' drifting in and out of lucid dreams. Hallucinations. Some lovely, some not so much. Presently, she's experiencing a rough one. It should come as no surprise to anybody that an environment as tightly controlled as an Imperial detention cell is monitored around the clock. Every movement the occupant makes witnessed, noted and recorded for later review. Ambrosia Delgard is no exception and each time the woman begins to drift into unconsciousness a sharp, loud tone sounds. The Ambassador has received no medical treatment as a result of the previous day's mishandling, left alone to stew with her isolation, her hopelessness and her pain. Time is one of the most potent weapons in an interrogator's arsenal and the Empire is in no hurry. It is almost impossible to tell how long it has been since the last session when the door of the cell finally opens. The rush of cool, crisp, fresh air from the corridor beyond subtly taunting the prisoner with its fleeting taste of freedom. "78492 stands." the clipped, snotty tone of the same greasy black-haired agent from the day before rings out, echoing off the walls. But...it was safer in her box! The noise of the door triggers a knee-jerk flinch, and she cowers back into her corner, struggling to gather her feet beneath her. Left arm wrapped protectively around her belly, she doesn't seem to fully comprehend the situation, in present time. *They* were coming. Bloodshot eyes regard the doorway in terror and she makes a feeble attempt to rise into a crouch as though preparing to pounce. One leg successfully tucks into the squat, but the left just sort of rests at a wrong angle below the knee. "Go away!" She mewls. "It's mine! ONLY mine." A sigh emits from the agent's mouth, shoulders tipped back by the light clasp he holds his hands in at the small of his back, slump just a fraction. It could hardly be called exhasperation - that would invest the gesture with far more interest than he seems to hold. "Seven-eighty-four-nine-two stands." he repeats, the final word elongated by his bored enunciation as he steps into the cell, a hand rises and a pair of faceless white-clad Stormtroopers follow in close behind. "Please just leave me...I can be quiet." Ambrosia pleads, curling more tightly into her 'safe' zone. When the boys in white arrive, she feigns a swat with her right hand. The tooth fragment she'd worked free in hours past is 'launched' at her assailants with about as much force as a stagnant breeze. It harmless tumbles from her lips, bouncing off her thigh and onto the floor. Guess she's not as physically fit for combativeness as she was those 18 years ago. "Just leave it..." Staring up and through them, into a past dimension, the ambassador battles an internal war with reality. Were they even real? Is she hallucinating again? Did they already take it? Her guarding hand palms her belly, growing a little leaner by the day, not bigger. Tears would flow, if she had any left. "Wh...where?" The agent's eyes follow the feeble arc of the broken tooth, he draws the stylus from its place on the side of his datapad and makes a note. He nods toward Ambrosia, and the Stormtroopers waste no time moving to her side, each taking responsibility for an arm - they're excellent physical specimens and the Ambassador is in no state to fight. They haul her to her feet, and then slack of the support they lend, providing a choice between an uncomfortable fall, or remaining upright under her own power. Something isn't right. Deja vu fading... Chomping down on her lower lip to fight a scream, Ambrosia's reflexes catch her weight, on her feet, uncaring that the left one can't support squat. It buckles, but the right holds and she sways there, head lolling to the side to examine the agent with twitchy scrutiny. "Y...you." She reasons, gradually remembering that it's now, now, and that she's a thirty-six year old woman, not a belligerent teen, incapable of spelling her own name. "You spilled my water." The agent meets Ambrosia's gaze but he seems to almost look /through/ her. The gradually cogent response goes into his log, stylus tapping and scratching away. "My water." he retorts smugly. "Seven-eight-four-nine-two stands." the words repeated this time as a statement, rather than a direction. "Has it reconsidered its position? Will it now cooperate when it is asked questions?" Would it? Ambrosia's jaw remains tense, continuing to regard him with the same, sideways stare of mistrust and calculation. The nauseating aches in her belly and explosive pulses within her skull claw a much-begrudged reply out of her mouth. "Yyyes..." She shifts her weight slightly, attempting to plant the toe of her left foot at least without toppling into those beefy, white arms like a drunken date. "Excellent." the agent remarks with the enthusiasm of an administrator whose faulty keyboard has been replaced. He readies his datapad. "Occupation?" Ambrosia's eyes narrow, the foggy whispers in her brain suggesting that this question has been already asked...and answered. So, she tries again, using different words. "Current Ambassador from your 'rebel alliance' to Caspar. Occasional assistant to Chief of State of that 'alliance', and former political emissary for other smaller-scale affairs. Lastly, wife ... and mother." For the first time, she notices the coolness of the corridor air turns her face into it, closing her eyes against a queasy wave that almost rocks her off her feet. Unable to stop it, she lurches with a dry heave. Red Alert, screams her dehydrated organs. Progress. Its slight, but the 'Ambassador' is now using the preferred nomenclature for the Republic. And is in any event, much more forthcoming. The dry heave sees a deft sidestep from the agent, clearing the potential area of projection - the woman was probably too dehydrated to manage vomiting but he did not relish the prospect of conducting the interrogation covered in bile. "Who sent you to Caspar?" A thin stream of drool slides out, tinged yellow, but no more. "The first time...or last?" Amber rasps hoarsely, throat clenched with another, rising spasm. She opens her eyes, trying not to notice the floor convoluting under their feet, or the shrinking of walls around. Not real...not real. Just on death's door, that's all. Still, a little orb of light drifting around to her left does warrant a curious glance, but her eyes fail to fully capture it, no matter how swiftly she darts them. "Was...supposed to just be an aide. First time..." She goes nearly cross-eyed, watching as the little, imaginary bastard settles into a hover on the agent's nose. "Dean Corso...he...died. Assassin. I stayed...many years." She blinks, hard, gritting her teeth in effort to remain in this dimension. "But what was...what question? Second time...I go back. Captain Cen, he...he came to me." And, wouldn't ya know it? That little orb leaps OFF the agent's nose and zips down her throat. Gagging instantly, she loses command of her legs and doubles over, body quaking with a series of coughs and gasps. Seventy two hours without water, particularly in the extreme conditions to which Ambrosia has been subjected is typically when you'd expect to see a subject red-lining. As she collapses, the agent gives a gentle sigh. "Medical response to seven-eight-four-nine-two." he declares, head tilted back toward the omnipresent camera concealed above the door. "Severe dehydration, potential respiratory arrest. Interrogation suspended pending stabilization."